For one uncertain moment, Claire wasn't responding, just stiffened in surprise and he was afraid that maybe everything she'd said the other day had either changed, or wasn't the same for her when faced with the reality of him actually following through...
but then something seemed to click and she was suddenly responding so enthusiastically that it blasted away his moment of mental backpedaling. He responded to her exhalation with a guttural noise of his own, fingers curling against her cheek and jawline as he kissed her back. Her own innocent attempts to deliver what he "wanted" might have been awkward, but it didn't faze him. For all of her lack of experience, he was about as far in the other camp as you could get - he couldn't even remember what it was like to be awkward, or hesitant, and he countered her stumbles with confidence. It wasn't expert technique he was looking for here anyways. It was the emotion intermingled with her desire that he was desperate to drink off her lips, and that drove him to not even give her a real chance to breathe.
She repositioned herself to allow him easier access to her without breaking the kiss, an encouraging move, and as her hands slid down him, his own free hand wrapped around her upper back, grazing down along her spine to rest at the base of it and pull her insistently nearer. Angling himself to face her, his mouth plied hers open gently but firmly, to mingle his hot breath with hers, and rake his tongue along her bottom lip.
There probably should have been guilt coursing through him for this, not just on account of Sam or Percy, but for the way he felt as if he might be able to soak up all her feelings for him if he could just draw her tighter, kiss her more deeply. It was an almost vampiric sentiment - as if he could force himself into feeling something by drawing it out of her, without any real concern for what it was going to do to her in the wake of this. What it would leave behind. But he didn't feel entirely selfish - he kept telling himself how much this was what she wanted, what he could give to her, and the way she clung to him didn't do a lot to refute that perspective on it.
His fingertips dragged against her jaw greedily, and then his hand dropped to join his other at her waist, drifting down to the back of her thigh. Shifting his own knee further up onto the bed, he carefully tugged at her thigh to pull her in closer. Dean honestly didn't know how far was too far, or where he was planning on taking this, or much of anything, really. For all the thinking he'd been doing moments before, now his brain was just off. He figured, subconsciously if nowhere else, that when he'd gotten what he needed from this, he'd know.
And some of his desperation came from the other subconscious place in him - that knew he wasn't going to get that satisfaction, no matter what he did.
This was a battle - just like everything else in his life - against that little voice.
no subject
but then something seemed to click and she was suddenly responding so enthusiastically that it blasted away his moment of mental backpedaling. He responded to her exhalation with a guttural noise of his own, fingers curling against her cheek and jawline as he kissed her back. Her own innocent attempts to deliver what he "wanted" might have been awkward, but it didn't faze him. For all of her lack of experience, he was about as far in the other camp as you could get - he couldn't even remember what it was like to be awkward, or hesitant, and he countered her stumbles with confidence. It wasn't expert technique he was looking for here anyways. It was the emotion intermingled with her desire that he was desperate to drink off her lips, and that drove him to not even give her a real chance to breathe.
She repositioned herself to allow him easier access to her without breaking the kiss, an encouraging move, and as her hands slid down him, his own free hand wrapped around her upper back, grazing down along her spine to rest at the base of it and pull her insistently nearer. Angling himself to face her, his mouth plied hers open gently but firmly, to mingle his hot breath with hers, and rake his tongue along her bottom lip.
There probably should have been guilt coursing through him for this, not just on account of Sam or Percy, but for the way he felt as if he might be able to soak up all her feelings for him if he could just draw her tighter, kiss her more deeply. It was an almost vampiric sentiment - as if he could force himself into feeling something by drawing it out of her, without any real concern for what it was going to do to her in the wake of this. What it would leave behind. But he didn't feel entirely selfish - he kept telling himself how much this was what she wanted, what he could give to her, and the way she clung to him didn't do a lot to refute that perspective on it.
His fingertips dragged against her jaw greedily, and then his hand dropped to join his other at her waist, drifting down to the back of her thigh. Shifting his own knee further up onto the bed, he carefully tugged at her thigh to pull her in closer. Dean honestly didn't know how far was too far, or where he was planning on taking this, or much of anything, really. For all the thinking he'd been doing moments before, now his brain was just off. He figured, subconsciously if nowhere else, that when he'd gotten what he needed from this, he'd know.
And some of his desperation came from the other subconscious place in him - that knew he wasn't going to get that satisfaction, no matter what he did.
This was a battle - just like everything else in his life - against that little voice.